


turning widdershins

by lavenderseaslug



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-29
Updated: 2019-01-29
Packaged: 2019-10-18 13:44:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17581994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavenderseaslug/pseuds/lavenderseaslug
Summary: zelda doesn't go to vinegar tom's just to drink. she goes to revel in other pleasures, to give into her hedonistic side. and then, one night, someone new comes. someone who might be able to match her. someone different.





	turning widdershins

**Author's Note:**

  * For [leatherpumpkin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/leatherpumpkin/gifts).



There’s a seediness about Vinegar Tom’s that Zelda likes, a dinginess about it, every layer of dust, every darkly lit corner dissuading anyone from thinking of it as a place where Zelda Spellman would spend time. The anonymity of her presence here is appealing, a mask put in place with a snap of her fingers, her eyes just visible, glinting and bright, her hair pulled back, contained until she enters a private room.

She rests her hand on the stained bar, intersecting circles left behind from long-ago drinks. The barkeep knows her by now, his attention to her instantaneous. It might be the spell she cast months ago, ensuring prompt service, drawing only the attention she wants to herself. But it might be how dark and lovely she looks, eyes all around Tom’s following her movements.

Green absinthe poured into a glass, a cube of sugar floating above it, the bartender flicking his fingers, water appearing from air to drip through the sugar, sweetening the drink before her. “La Fée Verte,” he says, placing it in front of Zelda, her usual drink. She appreciates the tradition of it, the mythology. The taste.

She doesn’t just come to drink, to sip her cocktail. She turns to face the room, glass in hand, balanced between her slim fingers. There are couples curled together in dark corners, there are writhing bodies against one wall, moans of pleasure dampened by a spell. Zelda’s eyes roam around until she sees what she’s looking for, a pair of eyes meeting her own. A smile spreads her darkly-painted lips, and she crooks her finger, a message and a promise. _Come_.

Kisses always taste sweeter with sugar on her tongue, and every time is always the same. Men and women find her, she isn’t discriminatory. Warlock or witch, she brings them up the stairs, to a private room, the key slid across the bar into her waiting hand. The beds are large, every one slightly sagging, the quilts frayed, the bedside tables dusty, the lamps missing bulbs. 

It’s never about the ambiance, she’s never needed that, not when she begins to unbutton her blouses, her dresses, not when she flicks her fingers to start the zipper of her skirt. Cords wind around her wrists, she bares herself entirely to whoever stands before her, a buffet of flesh and carnality, and she enjoys, just in this, to fully cede control. 

Sometimes she comes home with red lines from harsh nails running down her back. Other times, she has to gingerly seat herself at the breakfast table, doesn’t answer Hilda when she asks why. Still other times, she’s marked with purple bruises, imprints of teeth, marked as the sinner, the reveler, that she is.

She’s always been a sensual person, always been drawn to the activity of the night, to the feeling of silk sheets underneath bare thighs, of tipping her head back, neck arced and long, her hair swaying against her naked skin. She’s pale against the darkness, always so pale, kept out of sun and light, so delicate, like she might break.

But she’s stronger than she looks, and the more someone tries to break her, the more she feels the wellspring of pleasure that washes over her. Ropes and switches and chains, magicked plastic and cold metal, it all feels good if the right person is in charge. Zelda likes to think she has an eye for the ones who will be the hardest, the sternest, the roughest. She’s rarely disappointed. 

The one thing, amidst all the hedonistic enjoyment that her nightly romps bring her, that she misses is conversation. Banter. Silver-tongued, dark-haired demons to tempt her with words as much as their hands, their body. She has no one to talk to, at the end of the day. She thinks Hilda wouldn’t understand, sweet and kind as she is. Ambrose would only want to come along and tempt the night with her. There’s a loneliness, for all the physical closeness. 

Zelda still comes to Vinegar Tom’s, still waits at the bar for the right person to appear, never the same one twice, absinthe on her tongue, fire in her eyes. She doesn’t know if it’s foolish hope for something to change or grim settling for her current present. 

_But._

Something does change.

Someone new comes.

She is beautiful, inhumanly so, her hair a wild tangle, a dark cloud about her head, and Zelda itches to twine her hands in the strands. Her eyes are sharp, her nose long, and Zelda’s thighs squeeze at the thought of that face pressed between them. She’s loud with laughter, carefree as she drinks a clear liquid, taking large sips, covering her mouth when a snort threatens to spray the bar with her drink.

Zelda can’t stop staring, can’t take her eyes away. What’s more is the woman never looks in her direction, never watches her, never throws a sideways glance. It’s infuriating and intriguing in equal measure and her mind races, ideas caroming around her brain as she tries to think of a way to gain this woman’s attention. 

In the end, she thinks of nothing extraordinary, nothing sly and surreptitious. Instead, she makes her way down the bar and places her hand gently, with great care, on the woman’s shoulder. “Haven’t seen you here before,” she says, her voice throaty, spelled with lust, with intrigue. Her thumb moves just slightly, a small circle in the rich fabric of her coat. 

“Haven’t been here before,” the woman answers and turns to look Zelda full in the face for the first time, the intensity of her gaze terrifyingly lovely, her eyes dark and knowing, as if she’s seen what the night can hold, as if she’s conquered it too. 

“Zelda,” she says, offering her name, her real name, for the first time, holding her hand out like a question. 

“Mary,” is the name she gets in return, as much a gift as the feel of their hands sliding together, as Zelda feels an answering spark of magic flit along her palm, her spine straightening, her awareness telescoping to Mary, with her all-knowing eyes and her raucous laugh. “Aren’t you going to invite me upstairs?”

A flush goes from Zelda’s hairline straight down her toes, rosy red and hot, and she’s still holding Mary’s hand. Her face is somehow haughty and inviting, just waiting for the permission Zelda is so desperate to give. She cocks her head to the side, appraising and all too aware. “Isn’t that what you do here?” 

Wordlessly, Zelda nods and pulls Mary’s hand, pulls her up, and they’re nose to nose, eye to eye, lip to lip. She can smell the woman’s perfume, the vodka on her breath, a odor of brimstone just lingering at the edges of it all. Perhaps the scent of a garden paradise, lost long ago. Her tongue flicks out, wetting her own lips, and she stares at Mary, drinks her in. “Yes,” she says simply, and turns on her heel, knowing that she has Mary now, that Mary’s watching her walk away, taking in the sight of her, the swaying way she moves. 

She opens the door to an empty room, a twitch of her fingers making the bolt fly from the lock. Mary is close behind, her breath warm, her presence undeniable, and Zelda feels the thrill of control, the power that comes with the allure, of knowing Mary followed, that Mary is as much hers as she is Mary’s. 

The door closes behind them and Mary pushes her against the door, her head hitting the wood, her hair cushioning the thud. Mary’s hands clasp Zelda’s wrists, holding her in place, gripping just hard enough, taloned nails scraping the skin. Mary’s teeth are sharp on Zelda’s lips, grazing, nipping, biting. She feels as good as a demon, as wild as a nymph, and Zelda feels her hips thrust into Mary’s, can’t control the desire she feels. 

Mary kisses long, deep, devouring and hungry, like she’s leeching Zelda’s magic from her, like she’s trying to swallow her whole. Zelda’s hands are limp in her grasp, and she feels as though their bodies are molded together, pressed so close the fabric seems immaterial. “You’re wet,” Mary practically purrs, an evil smile gracing her features and it’s so devilish that Zelda feels like she might scream then and there. 

“And you’re not?” she counters instead, thrusting forward, using her legs, her thighs, her hips, to push Mary back towards the bed. Mary cackles, her head tilting back, her neck long, her eyes glinting, a challenge as she lays herself bare beneath Zelda’s gaze. Zelda twists her fingers, crooks her pinky, and Mary’s jacket and blouse disappear, her pencil skirt flying down her legs, whisking into thin air. Her underwear is black, her bra silky, the nighttime encasing her breasts, and Zelda finds it hard to breathe, even as she lowers herself slowly down, their lips meeting once more. 

Zelda finds herself undressed just as speedily, unceremoniously, skin on skin exhilarating, overpowering, wonderful and heady. She presses her fingers into Mary’s shoulders, feels heat feverishly pouring into her hands but thinks nothing of it. She’s danced with the devil before, can recognize the signs. 

Mary rolls them over, pushes Zelda onto her back, her hands once more held up beside her head, out of play, and she sees Mary’s lips move in a murmur as she mutters a spell, as she feels her wrists grow heavy, knows she couldn’t move them if she tried. “You’re mine tonight,” she says, her breath whispering across Zelda’s skin, a threat and a promise, and Zelda feels a shudder roll through her spine, a thunderstorm on a cloudless night. 

“And you’re mine,” she says, sharpness to her words, a reminder that they have ownership of each other, that there’s nothing given that isn’t being taken in return. She bucks into Mary again, feels the wetness through the scrap of fabric, lips quirking in a smile, and even with her wrists held fast, she snaps her fingers, and they’re both fully naked, bodies slipping together, finding spaces like a jigsaw puzzle, sliding into place.

Mary straddles Zelda’s hips, her knees spread wide and her fingers raking a trail down her bare breasts, her nails scraping against her sensitive nipples, pulling at the puckered flesh. Zelda groans, swallowed up by Mary, the pain of those nails pinching and plucking delicious, insidious, making her writhe. 

Mary’s teeth follow her hands, biting her way down Zelda’s body, marking her, her breath like a fiery brand as she goes, her tongue as devilish as her hands, twisting and twirling, drawing shapes and runes on her stomach, and she wonders what hex might befall her, what spell will take hold. 

It certainly feels like magic of some kind when Mary’s mouth nudges against her center, when her lips find the wetness trapped between her thighs, when those teeth ( _those teeth_ ) scrape against her clit. She is raw, animalistic, as she pushes inside of Zelda, as she flicks and teases with her tongue, as her fingers come up to join her mouth, stretching, prodding, making Zelda positively squirm. She can’t get enough and feels too much, wants more and less, everything and nothing. There’s no winning and there’s no losing as she ruts into Mary, as she sobs for release and begs her to continue. 

Full and empty all at once, Zelda comes with a shout, a curse, her voice spilling into the air, wrenched from her throat. Her hands move with futility, stuck as they are to the bed, and all she can do is clench her thighs, twist to the side and catch her breath. Mary sits on her ankles, prim and proper, looking every bit like a librarian or a historian, something pert and dainty, though Zelda thinks she’s had a glimpse at the sin within. 

Sometimes she feels like a captive, when a partner doesn’t immediately move away, doesn’t pull on clothes and make excuses. In this moment, though, fully prone and unable to stand from the bed, trapped under a spell and a woman, Zelda simply feels wanton and lovely, Mary’s gaze never wavering, the desire still boiling behind her eyes. Her hand, still sticky and warm from being inside Zelda, nudges between her thighs.

“Not quite done, pet,” she croons, her voice lilting slightly as she bends back over Zelda, their bodies just grazing, and she nips at Zelda’s lower lip, pulls it between her teeth, their noses touching, eyelashes fluttering. And then she bites, hard enough Zelda tastes the cold metallic taste of her own blood, but Mary’s tongue is there, swiping away at the pain. 

Zelda’s wrists are suddenly freed, almost floating from the bed at the loss of weight, but any time to process the fact is lost as Mary pushes her onto her front, her breasts pressing into the mattress, her thighs splayed, and Mary atop her hips once more, kneeling this time, sharp bone pressing into the small of her back. 

It’s a massage and a torture all in one, strong hands and sharp nails, a never-ceasing pattern that Zelda can’t quite make sense of, is never sure which touch to be prepared for, the thrill of the unexpected flooding through her and she feels ready for more, for it to start all over again, for it never to end. Mary’s mouth presses to the nape of her neck, one hand brushing her long hair aside, her teeth grazing at the hairline, and she whispers something Zelda can’t quite make out. 

But Zelda loses all sense of anything when Mary’s fingers move down her back, a floating little dance this time, a whisper of sensation, and when they find her core once more, her clit, and then past it, deeper, harder, stronger. It’s a new angle, stretches her differently, makes her push into the bed, grapple into the covers, the quilt musty with their exertions, the sheets rumpled from their bodies. 

Mary rolls off Zelda, though her hand never strays far from its intended goal. She pushes Zelda to her knees, hands splayed, holding her weight up, and Mary continues, hand moving, thrusting, penetrating from behind, her hips square to Zelda’s rear, other hand holding her steady, thumb digging into her back, and Zelda knows there will be a perfect half-moon mark that she will carry with her into tomorrow. 

When she comes again, her arms collapse, the pillow catching her head. She feels weak, wobbly, like a worm about to be tossed into a potion, a frog newly spawned. Turning onto her back once more, she looks up at Mary, standing at the foot of the bed. “Leaving so soon?” she asks, though she knows the answer, and sure enough, a twist of the fingers and Mary is once more fully clothed, though Zelda can still picture the sinews of her body beneath the fabric. 

“You wouldn’t have it any other way,” she replies, another flick of her hand and Zelda finds her dress on once more, though her underwear is mysteriously still vanished. She stands, a little shakily, and once more finds herself face to face with Mary, once more finds herself as much kissed as devoured, rough lips moving against her own. 

“Will you,” she clears her throat, unsure of the words, how to ask for what she wants, what she thinks she might need, with this woman who might be different than all the rest, “be here next week?” 

Mary smiles, an evil grin, her features all lit up like a jack-o-lantern. “Could be,” she says, offering no more, just a wink before disappearing into the night, leaving behind only the memory of her smile, a Cheshire cat vanishing little by little.

But when she arrives at Vinegar Tom’s late on a Tuesday night, she sees a tall glass of vodka, and right next to it, a snifter of absinthe.


End file.
